


Model Girlfriend

by Severina



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Community: 1_million_words, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 12:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3978475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belle agrees to be a life model for Storybrooke's new art class. Rumple is not impressed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Model Girlfriend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hanorganaas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanorganaas/gifts).



> Written for theladymore for her birthday at LJ's 1_million_words community.
> 
> * * *

Rumplestiltskin keeps half an ear on Belle as she chatters away while he works on his ledgers, his lip curling when he sees that the blasted fairies are once again overdue with their rent. He's tempted to throw them out altogether this time, and it is only the realization that Belle will have him sleeping on the cot in the back of this very shop – most likely because she'll have offered their home as temporary lodging to the meddling gnats – that manages to stay his hand as it inches toward his phone. 

"Are you listening, Rumple?"

Rumplestiltskin glances up, caught. "Of course, sweetheart," he lies.

Belle's answering smile informs him that she's suspicious of the falsehood, but she lets him off the hook this time. "Good," she says, "because I decided to do it."

His brow furrows as he tries to reconstruct the previous conversation. Something about visitors to the library, someone seeking to advertise their flyer in the window… then the fairies and their bloody red mark in his ledger, disrupting his concentration. Damn fairies. "I'm afraid I may have missed the last bit," he finally confesses.

Belle rolls her eyes, but still lays her hand atop his on the counter. "The new art class they're offering at the community centre?" she says slowly. "I've agreed to be the life model for the first class. Isn't that exciting?"

Rumplestiltskin blinks. A life model. But that would mean… He shakes his head. Belle is an innocent, still new to the ways of the new world, with no cursed memories to guide her. Surely she simply doesn't understand. "Belle," he says gently, "if you are to be a life model if would mean that… that you would have to be unclothed."

"Yes, of course," she says happily. She releases him to wave a hand in the air, and like every time before he feels immediately bereft of her touch. "Well, topless," she amends. "I'm going to wrap in a sort of gauzy fabric while I pose, to provide some texture for the artists. Oh Rumple, I can't wait to see what everyone comes up with!"

His hand clenches, fingernails digging into the skin of his palms deep enough to draw pinpricks of blood. The pain is inconsequential, minute compared to the white hot fire suddenly coursing through his temple. His mind's eye will not let him stop seeing Belle bathed in a spotlight, her soft curves on display for everyone to see. 

Whale, with his smarmy grin. Those skeevy dwarves and that bastard Nottingham. All of them leering at _his_ Belle. 

"I… I forbid it!" He regrets it as soon as the stuttering words are out of his mouth. His fingers twitch at his side at the instinct to pull them back, to stop time, to erase the last ten seconds from Belle's memory. When she looks up at him sharply, a single brow arched, he envisions everything collapsing around him and tries frantically to backpedal. "Belle, I only meant—"

"For the sake of the harmony of our relationship, I'll pretend I didn't hear that," Belle interrupts. She reaches across the counter to remove the forgotten pen from his hand, closes the ledger with a precise snap. "Now, dinner at Granny's?"

He could raze the community centre to the ground; turn all of the men of Storybrooke into toads; render them temporarily sightless whenever they try to gaze upon his Belle. That and a dozen other solutions run through his nimble mind in the space of a heartbeat, but in the end the all-powerful Dark One only sighs and allows his love to lead him to the diner.

* * *

He doesn't intend to go. Intends, in fact, to stay as far away from the community centre as possible, most likely with a bottle of fine aged scotch to keep him company. So he's as surprised as any to find himself hobbling up the steps to the wide double doors of the centre, his cane tapping on the tile floor as he makes his way toward the light spilling from the open door at the end of the hall.

The class is already underway, and he hovers in the doorway and scans the room quickly. His expression sours. Though Snow and Sheriff Swan hover at the periphery of the room, it is just as he expected: it's mostly the men of Storybrooke who have suddenly and inexplicably discovered an interest in exploring their artistic side. He sees Whale, of course, and three or four of the dwarves. It appears that his none-too-subtle warning to Nottingham has at least kept that bastard away. His gaze flicks from easel to easel, making note of which men's gaze lingers just a little too long on the model on the platform. His fingers clench on the nob of his cane as he considers exactly what type of punishments he'll mete out later for their transgressions. 

It's only after he's taken a thorough accounting that he allows his gaze to lift to the raised dais in the centre of the room.

His heart – shriveled and blackened thing that it is – stops and stutters in his chest; his hand clutches desperately at his cane when his knees grow weak; he knows his mouth is agape and can sense Miss Swan twitching in amusement, but he can no more temper his reaction than he could sprout wings and fly.

Belle is, quite simply, exquisite. She perches on a chair in the centre of the room, her curves both hidden and pronounced by billowy blue chiffon. One shapely leg peeks out from beneath the pillows of fabric; one breast is bare, plump and pert, the other tantalizing hidden beneath an artful drape of the material. Her long unbound hair flows over one shoulder, drawing the eye lower to the curve of her breast and then to the swell of her hips. 

Stunning, breathtaking, flawless – they are not sufficient. The word to describe his Belle has not yet been conceived. 

And when she lifts her chin and notices him and her blinding smile lights up the room, his heart restarts at double-time and his chest swells. There is no one else that can draw that smile from her, no one else that can make her eyes dance the way they are now. She _i_ s his, freely and unequivocally, and his shoulders rise and his back straightens at the thought. 

Let them look. It is he who will be escorting Belle home tonight; only he whom she will allow to touch her supple skin, to draw pleasure from her with fingers and lips.

"We have an extra easel, Mr. Gold," Snow says quietly at his elbow. 

He can't pull his eyes away from Belle, can barely moisten his lips enough to answer. "No one could capture her beauty," he murmurs.

"She might like it if you tried," Snow answers.

Rumplestiltskin lets her take his elbow and draw him toward a stool, props his cane next to him and takes the stick of charcoal numbly from her fingers and sets it to the page. He knows his efforts will be rudimentary at best, awkward and ill-conceived at worst. 

He meets Belle's eyes, sees hers soften as she watches him, and begins. It is, as he suspected, impossible to capture the beauty of one such as Belle in mere strokes on vellum, just as it is impossible to be worthy of such an ethereal creature. But he will try.


End file.
